The Light Across the Water
by indefiniteimpala
Summary: The mostly-bad ideas of Bran and Saewin. Set in the real tenth-century world and occasionally historically accurate (but only by accident). Original plot and characters; somewhat borrowed dragons. Adventure, explosions and dubious decisions ahead.
1. The Black Island (Part One)

Episode One: The Black Island (Part One)

"You're not to go out fooling with those lizards today. Don't you know it's nearly winter?"

Bran's foster-mother barely looked up from the hearth as he trotted downstairs, heavy leather boots clumping. As if they were going to let that stop them! Bran nodded seriously until she turned away, then stole from the back of the house without a sound. His cloak pulled high around his cheeks, he dashed into the woods. He could already see Saewin waiting there for him.

"Alright!" called the other young man. He was nearly invisible in the bare trees, the head of his wolf-skin pulled up over his long sandy hair. Bran was infinitely jealous of the wolfskin. His foster-mother said it was too lower-class for him – but he'd trade this finely embroidered cloak and twenty-two years of expectations in a heartbeat. The sewn-shut eyes of Saewin's wolf seemed to wink at him.

"It is pretty damn cold," admitted Bran as they set off at a jog through the woods. The frosty air brought out the sweetness of the grass, and the grey sky shone like silver above. A flight of crows sprang up from a bare-branched oak, cawing harshly as they passed.

"Not for the dragons," said Saewin, vaulting over a fallen tree. They shared a grin.

A fast fifteen minute's walk led them to a dip in the hill. Bran led the way beneath a curtain of weeds, a jumble of boulders; and they pushed their way out into a hollow, the grey mirror of a tarn at its center.

Saewin's wolf tail rustled across the leaf-litter as they hopped over to the water. Out at the edge of the tarn, cold turf gave way to grey stones, wobbling under their feet. There was a fine mist in the air, drifting across the top of the hollow and soaking through their clothes. Saewin stamped his feet – wrapped in wool and cheap linen rather than waterproof boots like Bran's – and blew on his hands. Bran stooped and tossed a few pebbles on the water, idly watching the ripples. The fine branches of the trees overhead, extended like the bones of birds' wings, wavered in the pool. Suddenly there was a flash of red among the ripples, and Bran whipped his head up as two luminous green eyes appeared in the water. Sitting on the other side of the pool was a rust-red dragon, twice as tall as a man, with a magnificent crest of horns above its glowing eyes. It had its tongue out, panting, and steamed with heat in the cold air.

"Nice and quick, Emer," said Saewin approvingly. "Now come over here, would you? I'm not walking all the way around."

Emer stretched open her mouth in an enormous yawn, revealing rows of vicious looking teeth.

"I'm not playing games, you know," said Saewin. He hooked his thumbs into his belt – and keeled into the water with a splash.

"What the devil!" he panted, coming up thrashing in the icy tarn. Bran was doubled over laughing. Emer pranced about tossing her wings and tail, eyes closed with mirth. Saewin hauled himself half onto a nearby boulder, breathless with cold, and came nose-to-nose with a pale reptilian face. Amber eyes held his for a long instant. Then it tilted slowly to one side, looked at him carefully for a moment more – and then ran its steaming, stinking tongue up the side of his face.

"Yeuch!" cried Saewin, falling back into the tarn and splashing water frantically across his cheek.

" _Good_ dragon, oh you _good_ dragon, Arwel!" called Bran, and the white dragon broke its perfect stillness, bounding over and knocking him flat.

"You bastards," grumbled Saewin, dragging himself out of the water and divesting himself of the dripping wolfskin. He shook it out and tossed it across a rock, then looked down at his sodden tunic in disgust.

"Oh, come on, Saewin, let's go for an adventure!" pleaded Bran, escaping from the attentions of Emer and Arwel.

"Phah," said Saewin. "Give me your coat."

They retrieved the dragons' harnesses from the little store under the roots of a pine tree at the edge of the hollow. Arwel held obligingly still while Bran tugged the straps tight under his chest. Emer, of a less quiet disposition, made Saewin chase her with the leather saddle, the embroidery on Bran's cloak flashing behind him in the patchy sunlight. Bran grinned and clipped the safety line firmly to his belt.

Soon they were soaring up above the tops of the bare forest, climbing in a steady spiral, the sloping hill of the island grey and brown around them. The dragons' wings were stretched out to catch the blossoming breeze. The sun glittered off their thin reptilian skin, tracing the lines of their bones. They rose above the dip in the land, and Bran saw the wide grey sea spread to the west. There was a break in the clouds and pale sun poured through, splashing upon the vast cold waves below.

Saewin gestured, and the two dragons swung around in a smooth bank, heading out towards the sea. Leading out towards the horizon were the little islands they had all grown up with, spray-tossed rocks for the most part, a jagged line of teeth. Bran and Saewin had explored them all long ago, and after a quarter-hour's flight, when they reached them, they swung around to the south. Suddenly Emer, now some distance off to Arwel's right, began to wing swiftly upwards towards the low cloud. Saewin flashed Bran a grin as Arwel tore after them.

"Cheating won't help you beat us!" yelled Bran through the rushing wind, and saw Saewin laugh.

The two dragons sped upwards, wrapping around each other in a tightening spiral. Bran clenched his fingers around the straps and dug his heels into Arwel's sides as they nosed up towards vertical.

"C'mon, Arwel, c'mon!"

The dragon's pale wings swept around him, buffeting him with warm, fishy air. Propping his chin against Arwel's shoulder, Bran saw Emer's red belly barely a wing-length away, beginning to fall behind.

"Hah!" he shouted, knowing Saewin wouldn't be able to hear him. Then they plunged into the cloud.

For a long few moments, they were wrapped in cold and damp, the clammy greyness pressing around them. Bran instantly regretted lending Saewin his waterproof coat. Then, as suddenly as they had entered it, they burst out of the cloud into the sun-drenched white mountains above. This was always Bran's favourite part of flying. The early winter sun blazed above them as they soared through a silent world of blue and brilliant white. Arwel's vertical path curved over upside down, his great ivory wings extending, and they shot around to the side, between two towering cliffs of cloud. Bran hooked his toes under the stirrups and clung on, feeling the sickening pull of gravity.

"Wahooo!" he yelled in elation, the wind snapping through his hair.

A red streak burst out of the clouds down below: Emer, Saewin crouching on her back. The pair soared up towards Bran and Arwel, showing no sign of turning aside. When they were so close that Bran could see Saewin's teeth bared in a wicked grin, his blond ponytail streaming behind, he called, "Evasive action, Arwel!" and tugged on the dragon's left shoulder. Arwel rolled to the side as Emer and Saewin shot past in a blaze of scarlet. For a second Bran had to close his eyes as the white dragon spun in a vortex, then, as he felt his fingers giving way, Arwel opened his wings with a crack and they banked down to the clouds below. Bran twisted around to look up behind him. There was Saewin, holding tight to Emer's saddle as she swung back towards them, perhaps two wingspans above. Seeing Bran watching, Saewin shifted his grip and waved nonchalantly, clinging to Emer's vertical back by his knees and one hand. Then he gripped the straps tight and, leaning forward, spurred the red dragon into a fierce dive. Bran saw the racing glint in Emer's eye, and crouched low over Arwel's back with a grin as they sped into a dive of their own.

The four of them raced and joked for a little while, holding their course south-west, until Saewin lead them back down below the clouds. Another few seconds of chill wetness, and they plunged back into the real world below. The clouds had closed in and the sea was slate grey. Bran, pushing himself up a little to peer over Arwel's shoulder, shivered. The sun had gone while they were fooling around upstairs, and a cold wind whistled through the gaps in his jerkin.

The dragons gradually slowed their breakneck pace as a dark smudge appeared on the horizon, steadily growing larger. When they began to make out black cliffs, with little tufts of white the thrashing waves at their base, Saewin pulled Emer up to glide by Arwel's wing tip, close enough to talk.

"You think that's it?" he shouted.

"Dunno," Bran called back, feeling a shiver of excitement and fear in his chest all the same. "It's worth checking it out though! Are you sure that's not one we've done before?"

Saewin didn't justify this slur with an answer, and instead, with a rude gesture, swung Emer down in an inverted bank. They levelled out with a roll halfway between Bran's height and the gray ocean. Bran shrugged and sent Arwel swooping down after them. Saewin was the best navigator he'd ever seen, able to hold times and speeds and distances in his head in a way that simply baffled Bran. Himself, he'd get lost in the fields around the village, where he'd played since he was five.

Soon they were drawing near to the island. It was a little larger than the barren rocklets closer to home, but not by much. Below, massive waves pounded against the shore. They looked much bigger than they had from above, thought Bran with trepidation as the two dragons flapped gently over the beach.

At the top of the cliffs, a solid mass of pines ran right to the sheer drop, their tangled roots hanging out into space. They cruised around it for a moment or two before Bran spotted a clear space where a rockfall had cleared out the trees not long before. It was a squeeze, trying to get both dragons down on the uneven, log-strewn ground, but they kept their wings held tight to their sides until the young men could jump down.

"Look at this place," said Saewin, shaking his head. The dragons furled their wings and snarled at each other, their claws skittering against bark and needles, vying for space. "It's like no-one's been here before."

"How could anyone?" Bran pointed out. He pushed his way a couple of steps into the trees. Their branches were spiky, and he shoved against boughs thick with needles. "Ouch! I mean, the only way up those cliffs is by dragon, and I don't see where they would have landed. We were lucky to find a place."

"Which makes this a perfect candidate for the Black Island," said Saewin with satisfaction. He elbowed his way past Emer to stand next to Bran, leaning against the tough bark of a pine.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Bran nervously. Their search for the fabled haunted island had been an exciting focus to their adventures, but every time it looked like they'd found it, Bran's common sense kicked in. Haunted islands where all well and good when you were boasting about your exploits around a fire, but when one was actually on one it was quite different.

"Oh, hush, you sissy," said Saewin, putting his hand on Bran's head to boost himself onto a low branch. Bran pushed him off irritably, brushing at his hair, as Saewin clambered over the branch and dropped down onto the pine needles on the other side. "This looks like as good a track as any," he said, turning back to grin at Bran, who could barely see him through the tree.

"There isn't any track at all!"

"Well, we're going to make one," said Saewin, pulling the edges of Bran's cloak over his hands. "We'll have to leave the dragons, of course, but I'm sure we'll be able to find our way back. Come on!" And with that he pushed his way off into the trees.

Bran threw up his hands in irritation, but as Saewin's furious rustling began to die down, he scrambled up onto the low branch, resigned to following him. He couldn't very well leave Saewin to run off on his own, after all – who knew what sort of mischief he'd get himself into.

"You two will be alright here?" he called unhappily to the dragons. Arwel took a pause from gnawing at Emer's tail to chirp reassuringly at him, then broke off to snarl at Emer as she snapped at him.

"Great," said Bran, without conviction, and hopped down into the forest.

He soon caught up to Saewin, who had become stuck navigating a particularly tangled thicket. The two of them pressed upwards. The grey sky, or what little they saw of it over the treetops, seemed to press down as they battered their way through the forest. After a while, it began to rain; beneath the canopy, all that reached the friends were tiny specks, fine as mist.

They came upon the top very suddenly: one moment, Bran was wearily shoving at yet another spiky green bough; the next, he was staggering forward onto flat turf. Saewin, taking a turn walking behind, fell after him with a thud.

"Ooh," he said, when he managed to roll himself over and look up at Bran, who was rooted to the spot.

"Can we go back now?" said Bran in a strangled voice. In the breathless, frustrating climb he'd quite forgotten to be afraid, but now – with heavy clouds beginning to roil in the circle of sky over their heads – his heart was in his mouth.

At the peak of the hill there was a little circle of grass, rough and weathered, and bounded on all sides by the forbidding pines. And at the centre of the circle were three massive stones, two upright and the other laid crosswise across them, as if forming a gigantic door. The thin rain hissed down around them, turning the air opaque and running in rivulets between the grass.

"Been listening to fairy-tales, Bran?" mocked Saewin, pushing himself to his feet. Bran flushed. "Besides, we came all this way. Be a shame not to check it out."

Striding past Bran, Saewin picked his way up the sodden turf towards the arch. Bran, despite his whirling feelings of fear and irritation, noticed that his friend's legs were trembling a little, belying his confident words.

"This was _his_ stupid bloody idea," he snarled under his breath, and squelched after Saewin.

Up close, the stone arch was grimmer and greyer. The sides of the stones, taller than a dragon's wingspan, were jagged and pitted, and pale lichen grew on them in slimy tufts. They seemed to radiate cold. Bran's fingers found the hilt of his knife on his belt and gripped it tight.

Saewin, in front, drew right up to the nearest stone, then glanced back at Bran, bravado and his usual reckless humour overlaying the doubt in his eyes. Slowly he put out his hand, until his palm was hovering just above the rough surface of the rock.

"Don't do it," warned Bran, and Saewin grinned, gritted his teeth, and thrust his hand forward.

Nothing happened. Bran, his knife now somehow in his hand, saw Saewin wobble between disappointment and profound relief.

"The heck kind of haunted island is this?" said Saewin, stepping quickly away from the stone. "There's nothing here. Do you suppose this even is the Black Island?"

"Let's leave now and say it is," suggested Bran.

"Sod that," said Saewin. "I'm at least having a proper look around first. Come on – or are you still being a sissy?"

"I'm not a sissy," said Bran automatically, frowning in irritation.

"Then prove it," taunted Saewin, waggling his eyebrows, and moved off around the stone.

Bran growled to himself, but took a better grip on his knife and followed, keeping a good dragon-length between himself and the stones. The thick iron was reassuring in his palm.

"Saewin, can't you stay where I can see you?" he called. It came out more like a whine, and he shut his mouth in embarrassment.

"Ooh, Bran's _scared_ ," said Saewin. Bran caught a glimpse of his own coat as Saewin moved around the other side of the stone. "Come and catch me!" Saewin darted across the gap in the middle of the arch, jumping behind the second stone and out of Bran's line of sight.

"Saewin!" shouted Bran, perforce running after him. The other side of the stone was bare and Saewin-less when he reached it. Bran bit his lip. Suddenly a cold pressure jabbed the middle of his back, and he screamed. From the peals of laughter, he knew even as he whirled around what had happened.

"Bastard," he said, giving Saewin a punch in the ribs with the hilt of his knife. "I could have cut your throat by accident."

"Oh, man, you scream like a girl," was all Saewin said.

"I'll make _you_ scream like a girl if you do that again," snapped Bran, jabbing the knife downwards meaningfully.

"Come and get me then," mocked Saewin, and spreading his arms, he stepped backwards under the arch.

"No!" said Bran almost without thinking, flinging out his free hand after Saewin.

"What, you too scared?" said Saewin. He stretched out his fingertips to brush the stone on either side of him, and stamped on the ground, kicking up little drops of rain. "Come on, Bran. Come and get me."

Bran, with a jolt of terror, felt the cold air suddenly become crackly and thin, and the wind begin to swirl around them, building in pressure. He stumbled backwards almost unthinkingly, unable to drag his eyes from Saewin's pale face under the arch.

"Knew it!" crowed Saewin, apparently not noticing the fractures in the air. He jumped up and down a few times, spraying water in the air. "Poor liddle Bran is fwightened of a patch of grass!"

The dark clouds in the sky suddenly drew together above them, with a speed that shocked Bran, as alert and on edge as he was. The wind howled, an alien shrieking cry, and the ocean of trees around them thrashed their hissing boughs in reply. Bran, staggering, saw Saewin's face turn upwards for a second, fear suddenly stamped in his eyes – and then with an almighty crash, the air in front of him blazed with light and heat, and he was thrown backwards. Brilliant white fire seared his vision, and he flung up his arm in front of his face, the knife flying off somewhere onto the wet grass. For an instant he could only lie there gasping, half blinded, his heart beating a crescendo against his terrified ribs. Then, as the radiance faded, he pushed himself onto his elbow and raised his head, with no idea of what he might find.

There on the crest of the hill where the arch had stood, the top stone was cracked in half, lying fallen between the other two in a circle of scorched turf. Tiny fires still flickered at its edges, being eaten up by the rain, which was now beginning to plummet in earnest, battering against Bran's head and shoulders. Shards of shattered rock were scattered all around the blackened circle, smoking. One the size of Bran's arm had pierced the earth not a handspan from his face. The stones and scorched ground rippled with the evil glow of the fire, billowing smoke and steam into the roiling clouds above. The blackness of the forest closed in all around.

Saewin had disappeared.

For a moment after he woke up, Saewin had no idea where he was. He slowly pulled himself upright, sitting crosslegged on something hard and dusty and sloping – his head cracked against rock as he straightened. Then he remembered the stone arch – Bran's petrified face – the flash of lightning – and a sickening fear settled in the pit of his stomach. Was the island haunted after all? He'd half-believed it, when they'd first began to search for it: how fun, it had seemed; ghosts and sprites and curses – but now, in the deep, seeping chill under the earth, those things seemed much more real and much more deadly.

It took him a little while to gather the courage to move, but his neck was horribly cramped and a shard of rock was stabbing his spine. Crawling forward, his hands blindly waving in the air ahead, Saewin inched along the rock. His whole body ached. His head throbbed. He supposed the cool and the dark were saving him from a serious headache, but he'd trade a good deal of pain for a sight of the sky, or to hear Bran's familiar voice. He wondered with a jolt what had happened to Bran – he hadn't been struck by the lightning, had he?

Forgetting for a moment to check where he was going, Saewin pitched forward all of a sudden as the sandy rock ahead suddenly vanished. He felt a stab of horror – what if he fell down a chasm, or got trapped head-first in a crevice? But instead he skinned his elbows on dirt, just knee-height below.

"Dammit, I wish there was light here," he cried quietly. The noise buzzed oddly in his ears. He realized they were still ringing from the lightning strike.

Slithering down into the dip, he propped his back against the earth and took a breath. Just crawling a few steps had sapped his energy; more from anxiety than the ache in his muscles.

"How am I going to get out of here?" Saewin said to himself. The talking seemed to help quiet his pounding heart, even though it still sounded odd. Maybe the thick-packed dirt weighing down on all sides helped to deaden the sound. The thought of being buried alive brought a sob to his throat, quickly choked back. He wasn't going to cry, or even sniffle. Chances are Bran would show up to rescue him as soon as he started blubbing, and then he'd never here the end of it. Definitely, Saewin thought, as soon as he started to cry, Bran would be there. Maybe he should cry.

He sat for a moment, dry-eyed and shivering as the heavy chill began to creep through his clothes. Then he pulled himself together and began inspecting his assets.

So. Saewin's best skill was how he could navigate anywhere – that's what they all liked him for back home. But there was no sun or stars or breeze down here – nor was there any direction to go. He didn't have anywhere to start from, either – for all he knew, he could have fallen a long distance one way or another. What else did he know how to do? Nothing useful. He could track and shoot and swim, but digging his way out of a tomb of rock had never been something they'd taught the village kids. He could bait a line and gut a fish – no, useless – he could build a fire – he could build a fire! And if he was lucky, he'd put his flint and tinder pouch on his belt that morning.

He was lucky. Ripping a strip off his shirt – vandalizing Bran's nice cloak was tempting, but probably unwise – he scrabbled in the dark for his flints and knocked a few sparks onto the cloth. It took him a few tries, but after several frustrating, fearful minutes, fire blossomed on the ground in front of him.

Saewin was afraid that the fire would illuminate something terrible – a grinning skeleton, a hobgoblin, something worse – but instead the first shape he could make out in the flickering orange light was a box. A thick box, made of oak planks and bound with iron – like the boxes that were sometimes on the trade ships that came past the island when the wind was fair. Inching over to the box, Saewin laid a hand on its side. It was cold and slightly damp, but that was just the natural dampness of the earth. He waited a moment, but nothing shrieked or scratched or tried to eat him. He stood up slowly, then stretched his hand above his head when it didn't hit anything. His palm pressed against solid rock when his elbow was nearly straight.

Comforted by this – probably nothing was lurking above him, then – Saewin turned right around, conscious that the light was dying quickly. There were a lot more boxes, and more – barrels and bundles and sacks of heaven knew what. Saewin's little circle of light didn't go far, and shadows flocked between all these strange shapes. There were stacks of things in every direction – oh, no, that was a wall – and there too – the fire at Saewin's feet turned dull red as it began to die, but he figured that he was in the corner of a fairly large cave, completely full of Things. What kind of haunted secret island was this?

Kicking hopefully at the nearest box, Saewin found it too well made for firewood, and resigned himself to tearing another strip from his shirt. He was fully aware that he couldn't go on like that forever, and that sooner or later he'd run out of things to burn. In the new light, he turned around to see where he'd come from, and his heart dropped into his stomach. Behind him, the solid rock of the ceiling was crumpled and cracked like an eggshell: heavy chunks of rock tumbled against each other in a jumble of dirt and dust and pebbles the size of Saewin's fist. He'd obviously fallen just clear of it. A few splinters and some scraps of cloth, caught under the debris, made him shiver. It would have been nasty had those been bones and blood.

Tossing what scraps he could gather on his little fire, Saewin took out his knife and began prying at the sides of his box. There was no digging out the way he came in – he was afraid even to breathe on the rubble, in case it came down more. The panic of being crushed spiked in Saewin's throat, and he jammed his knife in harder, forcing himself to think of something else. Maybe there'd be buried treasure?

The box was sturdy and well-made, but a few minutes sawing and jimmying at the thick iron nails, and Saewin could pry free a few of the planks at the side. He stacked them carefully over his little fire, which was becoming a happy blaze. He went to stick his hand inside the box, but his courage failed him and instead he poked in his knife, touch by proxy. No spiders or ancient curses poured out – and when Saewin drew out his blade, it tugged with it a piece of fine cloth. His knife had made a hole in it. Sitting on the box, Saewin leaned down and drew it through his fingers. He had never felt silk before, but – after the day's grime and crawling around and hacking at things – it felt like heaven against his hands.

"Wow," said Saewin softly. In the orange firelight, who could tell what colour it was, but it had a beautiful sheen. Eagerly he stood up and, heaving the box into his arms, he shook it to see what else would come out. The rest of the piece of fabric slithered through and fell to the floor in a heap. A couple of others followed them, and he kicked them quickly away from the fire. Then he sat back down on the box – a lot lighter now – and put his chin in his hands, struck by sudden despair again. He'd found some kind of a treasure after all – but he still had no idea how to get out. _Maybe Bran will work out a way_ , he thought wistfully. But Saewin knew that that was unlikely. _If he's even still alive_.

The air was beginning to feel hot and stuffy, and to stick in his throat. The smoke from the fire was gathering thick overhead. Saewin realized that, without noticing it, he'd begun to gasp for breath. _Maybe that fire wasn't such a good idea after all_. He was suddenly tired, and his head hurt. Feeling utterly depressed and utterly alone, Saewin allowed himself to slither off the box and sink down on the bolts of cloth strewn across the dusty floor. The crackling brightness of the fire singed his eyes. It was beginning to suffocate again, the remains of its fuel dark charred scraps. Saewin turned his head to look up at the roof – towards the sky – lost again in shadows. He felt a couple of tears wind down his cheek, but could not muster the energy to wipe them away.

Just as his eyes were beginning to fall closed, there was a scruffling, scratching sound, getting louder and louder. _That'll be the hobgoblins, coming for me at last_ , was Saewin's weary thought. Then a pebble struck him in the face. And then another one, and a shower of dirt – then a big rock fell on his shoulder.

"Ouch!" yelped Saewin, jolted into starting up. His head spun and he fell back to the ground, shoulder stinging fiercely. And then suddenly, as he turned his face fearfully upwards, a great hole burst open in the roof, and a gust of cold, fresh, sweet air burst through. Along with a shower of freezing rain that battered against Saewin, a pair of enormous yellow eyes appeared in the opening.

"Saewin?" called Bran croakily, once he had gotten his voice back. There were still flickers of fire around the edge of the destruction, beginning to hiss as they died in the rain. Veils of smoke billowed out towards him as the wind changed, wreathing him in white.

For a few moments, Bran could only stand there, stunned by the devastation. The stone arch was completely gone, lying in a tumbled heap of rock. He could feel the heat radiating from it. He knew he should feel – something – grief, fear, anger – denial: but his mind would not take it in. He couldn't move. The wind plucked at his clothes, mud-spattered and stained with ash, sending the hem of his tunic fluttering behind him towards the woods.

There was a gap in the trees in front of him. The arch had obscured it before, but now he could see – a little cleft in their dark tangle, and through it the sea. Waves, waves, salt spray – a growing storm; a whirling, slate grey mass, to the horizon. But on the horizon … Bran saw with a suddenness that made him wonder if it had been there all along – a light across the water. Pure white, a sickly white amid the somber darkness. Somewhere on the edge of the ocean, somewhere far off to the south. A light.

Then he set off running. Before the thought had even entered his mind – before he could think at all – his feet were thudding over the pine needles and twigs under the trees, down the rough track they'd battered through before. Every step jarred his whole body, shuddering up his ribs, his spine. He crashed head-first into a branch. Needles whipped against his face, into his nose and mouth – he shoved them away and tore on. He didn't know where he was going; or even what he was afraid of, but he ran, on and on, until he couldn't breathe. The slope of the ground, slippery with mud and the loose layer of needles, made it hard to stop. It was a headlong plunge, uncontrollable.

Underneath the dead, gasping, overpowering desire to keep running, Bran began to feel panic – what if he couldn't stop? Where was the cliff – where were the dragons?

Then he ran into a tree. Its solid trunk stopped him dead, holding him upright for a moment before he slid to the ground, sprawling on his back. His nose blazed with pain. The rest of his face felt numb. He lay there breathless for a moment, feeling the damp of the ground seep through his clothes. Rain began to fall through the branches on his hair, and he turned his face to the sky. Above the trees he could see the grey clouds, crying.

Bran let his head fall back onto the needles. After a moment he realized he was crying too. Tears ran into his ears and pooled in the hollows of his eyes. They mingled with the rain, running off him, and bleeding into the earth. A sob shook his body, startling him; he sniffed, gasped; sobbed again. His throat was thick. He could barely breathe.

A few minutes of wretched crying, and he pulled himself onto his side, and then to sitting upright, his legs tucked beneath him, his feet on the bole of the tree. Rivulets of rainwater trickled into his boots. He scrubbed his hand across his eyes and under his nose, and then pushed himself to his feet. They slipped in the mud, and he steadied himself against a branch. It scraped his palm. He didn't care. He stood for a moment, leaning against it, letting the feelings flood through his body. They came and went as quickly as the lightning – fear, nausea, shame, pain, an agonizing stab of guilt. And they drained away, leaving him with nothing but awful, aching tiredness, tiredness in his bones. He pressed his head against the branch, feeling the bark sting his face; the rain run down beneath his collar. How had it been only this morning, that they'd fooled around by the tarn? It felt like a year ago. But Saewin's wolfskin would still be drying on the rocks back there. His footsteps would still be in the mud.

Lacking anything better to do, Bran pulled himself up and plodded on, downhill, his head downcast. The strange cowardice that had seized him up on the hilltop seemed to have washed away, faded down to a quiver beneath his ribs.

He found the dragons again purely by accident; by stumbling into their little clearing, not looking where he was going. He tripped over a warm red branch and would have fallen had it not swooped up to catch him around the middle.

"Oh," said Bran quite tonelessly, extricating himself from Emer's tail. The dragons looked at him curiously, both their heads tilted on exactly the same angle. Bran sat down heavily, his legs suddenly turned to water. Arwel's solid bulk appeared behind him, ivory wings drooping around him like blankets. The white dragon crooned worriedly, and licked his face. It stung, but Bran didn't push him away.

Emer made a noise half-way between a snort and a mew, and Bran glanced up at her, gently lifting Arwel's wing away. She was standing half-upright, her forepaw raised, narrow snout straining towards the hilltop.

"It's not my fault," he whispered. The scales on Arwel's wings glistened like tiny pearls in the storm-light.

Suddenly, like a banner unfurling, Emer's coiled form sprang into the air. She soared up away from the cliff, a red streak against the clouds. Arwel huffed as they were buffeted by her wings' draught.

"Come on," said Bran hoarsely, pulling himself out from under Arwel's grip. The white dragon gave a whistle of protest. "No, she's right," said Bran. He hauled himself onto Arwel's back, though the dragon tried to brush him back to the ground. "We – we have to at least _look_. We have to look, Arwel."

He clung to Arwel's back, shivering, as they flapped reluctantly after Emer, who was barely visible circling over the crest of the hill. Bran turned his face away from the south, burying it in Arwel's shoulder. _Saewin wouldn't be afraid of a light_ , snarled part of him. But the other part said sadly, _And look what happened._

The fires on the hilltop were dead by the time they had circled down and landed. Emer, stalking the forest's edge, had her wings drawn back and was hissing. Bran could feel Arwel trembling beneath him. If even the dragons disliked the stones …

"Come on," said Bran again, as he slipped to the ground over Arwel's shoulder. He turned his face to the north, feeling a prickling in the back of his scalp, and strode resolutely across the blackened grass towards the wreck. It crunched beneath his boots. He trod the soot into the rain-soaked ground, trying to focus on how it scraped under his heels. "Dig," said Bran. "Here." He jabbed downwards – his knife was in his hand again, and how had that happened? Arwel gave him a long look, the pupils in his amber eyes just slits. Emer, lashing her tail in the sodden pine needles, huffed and slithered up the hill. When her nose touched the burnt circle she whined.

"You – useless – just _dig_!" cried Bran in frustration. He bit his knuckles, shocked himself. But Emer, with a reproachful glare, began to claw at the turf before the stones. Dark sods showered down the slope. The muscles under her crimson skin rippled. Bran took a couple of steps staggering back, finding himself once again close to tears. He pressed the hilt of his knife, cool metal, into his palm. Arwel was beside him. The white dragon levered up the fallen stone, ash trickling between his claws, as Emer heaved away the dirt. Suddenly they both snuffled, leaned forward – Arwel, transferring the jagged block of stone to his hind foot, plunged nose downwards, scrabbling furiously. Then the earth fell away, and Bran leaning forward saw, amid swathes of gold and purple and turquoise, Saewin's pale face staring up at him.

"The heck kind of haunted island is this?" said Bran. He let a bolt of scarlet silk dribble through his palms.

"That's what I said," said Saewin. He kicked a box, and it clattered beneath the hole in the ceiling. Rain hissed against it, and Arwel – his shoulders still hunched in paranoia – spun around, hissing.

"Oh, knock it off," called Bran to the pacing dragon. He pulled some cloth around his shoulders, twirling to see how it felt. The terror and grief he'd felt not ten minutes ago had disappeared – he felt like laughing at it now. Emer, too, seemed to be having fun: she was crashing around further down the cave, her long tail sweeping over piles of barrels and bales without regard.

"I think I've figured it out, though," Saewin told him. His was still pale, and his hands were yet to stop shaking, but he was walking, and moving, and breathing, and Bran felt filled with happiness.

"Yeah?" he said. The silk slithered off his shoulders.

"I reckon this is a smuggler's hideout," said Saewin. "Or something. They let everyone think the place is cursed – set up a stone arch to freak everyone out – maybe spread some rumours, wreck a couple ships nearby – and boom, no-one comes near. Pretty shrewd, really."

"But the Black Island's been a story for ages – a hundred years at least," Bran pointed out. He caught Arwel's nose as it swept past and held it to his chest, stroking his forehead.

"So?" said Saewin. "There's a lot of stuff here. Maybe it's a pirate hoard instead!" He leant backwards against a barrel as tall as himself, knocking excitedly on its side. "Back when I was jumping about under the arch before – when you were being a _sisssy_ – " they exchanged stuck-out tongues – " well – it felt all hollow, and springy. I reckon there was a trapdoor under there, before it got all squished."

"Alright then, tell me this – how did the pirates or whatever get all their loot up here in the first place?" Bran pointed out reasonably. Arwel snorted into his armpit, and Bran let him go. The dragon sat back on his haunches, his eyes looking more normal. He blew a raspberry, showering Bran with spit, and Bran flopped against his shoulder, relieved.

Saewin was biting his lip. "Nah, you got me there," he sighed. "Maybe there used to be a path –"

At that moment, there was a crash and a shriek from the other end of the cave, and all eyes whipped around, Arwel letting out a stuttering snarl. Emer glanced back at them, comically startled. Her explorations, over-exuberant, had smashed a trapdoor hidden in the cave's rugged floor, and the shattered shards of wood lay all around Emer's feet like broken eggshell. Saewin dashed over, Bran dragging a reluctant Arwel behind. The four of them peered over the rim, into the darkness. They could just make out a rough tunnel; some stairs cut into the rock and a pile of torches laid waiting by a wooden ladder.

Bran and Saewin looked sideways at each other.

"No _way_ ," said Bran with feeling.

"Oh, so way," said Saewin. He jumped down, landing with a puff of dust. "This is such a good idea."

Emer and Arwel locked eyes, and as one looked down at Bran. For a moment he forgot all about the fear and the superstitions, the lightning strike and the light across the water – and grinned down at Saewin.

"You're such a moron," he said, and jumped down too.


	2. The Black Island (Part Two)

Episode Two: The Black Island (Part Two)

The tunnel was dark and narrow, but weirdly clean, lending credence to Saewin's pirate theory. Their feet scuffed in a layer of dust – knocked down by the lightning, said Bran – but the ground was smooth. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke, and sweeter flavours.

"Just think, Bran," said Saewin. "All of the things that might have passed through here! Gold from Thrace, diamonds from India; unicorns' horns from – from Rome – "

"You don't even know where all those places are," said Bran grouchily behind him. Saewin spun around to glare. The light from the improvised torch he was holding – the sides of an ex-crate bound with the remainder of his shirt – wavered against the walls.

"Just because some of us are too good to listen to trader's tales, it don't mean I can't dream," Saewin told him, turning back hurriedly as his feet stumbled over a step. "Oh look, it's going down again now."

Bran sighed. Saewin could hear him tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He felt a little bad, but in that awkward way that stopped him reaching out to reconcile. They both knew Bran wasn't liked or welcome back home, and rarely included when adventurers were telling their stories in the village Hall.

"If it goes down too much further, I'm going back," said Bran, with a cough to cover the silence. "I don't fancy walking up all these steps again."

"Good luck getting the dragons to turn around," Saewin told him, relieved. He thrust the torch ahead, but the steps kept going down, into a well of shadow.

"I can't believe they even fit down here," said Bran. Arwel and Emer were in file behind him, Emer bringing up the rear – they hadn't been able to convince Arwel down the tunnel otherwise. Both dragons were having to hold their wings over their heads to fit in the space. Sometimes their wingtips scraped soot from the ceiling, casting black showers over the friends, making them cough.

Arwel, as if in reply, let out an irritated groan through his nose.

"You sound like a dying sheep," muttered Bran, and staggered as Arwel's snout shoved him in the back.

"What happened to your face, by the way?" called Saewin over his shoulder.

"Ran into a tree," Bran said shortly. Saewin chuckled.

"It came off worse than you did, I'm sure," he said seriously. He wished he'd been there to laugh at it. Dried blood ran from Bran's nose to his chin, and his cheeks and brow were littered with little scratches, so it must have been a good collision.

The steps continued for some time. Bran never made good on his threat to turn back, and they trotted on in silence, the warm fishy breath of the dragons behind them, a damp coldness ahead.

"We must be getting somewhere by now," said Saewin at length, beginning to get bored. His voice echoed weirdly in the darkness.

"I think I smell salt," offered Bran. They paused for a moment. Over the rustling and huffing of the dragons behind, Saewin could nearly make out a lapping sound, as if of water on stone.

"What if there's a secret harbor down here?" Saewin said excitedly, his spirits picking up.

"Or maybe the tunnel's flooded," said Bran.

"Or maybe there's a secret harbor," said Saewin, ignoring him.

In the end, it turned out to be Saewin who was right. The tunnel opened onto a rock ledge, and as Saewin stepped out, the orange torchlight soared up to a dripping ceiling high above. Spread before them was black water, and a shelf of stone longer than a dragon. Saewin craned his neck back to look upwards. The cavern roof was vast, grown over with stalagmites. Then his foot skidded and he crashed over onto his back, the torch dropping to the ground.

Bran jumped forward to catch it, but he slipped too, and instead did an ungainly slither onto his shins. He scrabbled the torch from the wet stone before it could go out. Rising up on one knee, he brushed his palms off on his tunic and glanced over at Saewin.

"I think I broke my back," groaned Saewin, still lying down. Emer's face suddenly filled his vision with a cloud of rank breath.

"Yeuch," Saewin choked, and pushed her away. He clambered to his feet, a hand on her horns, rubbing his stinging spine.

"Woah, look at these," said Bran. He shoved himself upright, and tottered off to the right, his hands spread for balance. The torchlight wavered crazily.

"Wait for me, wait for me!" muttered Saewin. He draped himself over Emer's neck, her spines jabbing his ribs, and pushed her head around. Bran's rich cloak – which he'd insisted Saewin wear, as his shirt was now in tatters – flopped over his shoulder. "Come on, you." He skated after Bran, a bemused Emer sliding along beside him. Arwel skittered after them, his pupils slitted with distaste and his wings outstretched.

Further along the ledge, it broadened and got higher, obviously out of the tide. Saewin staggered up after Bran, sighing with relief at the dry ground.

"Right," he said. They were surrounded by boxes and barrels, much as it had been in the storeroom above. But these, although they were closer to the wet, looked newer, and in a better state.

"I recognize some of these marks," said Bran, holding the torch close to a sturdy sea-chest the height of his waist. Saewin peered over his shoulder.

"Yeah," he said. "That black triangle thing is a trader's stamp I've seen before. And the red lines, too. These must be more recent loot, I guess. Hey – can you read this writing?"

"No," said Bran slowly. They both crouched down to examine the marks branded on the chest's side. "It's not words that I know … the letter's're almost like Latin, but they look weird. Too curvy-like."

"Huh," Saewin stood up, disappointed. "What's the point of all that fancy learning, then?"

"I dunno," sighed Bran. He slid onto the floor, propping his elbows against his knees. Saewin looked down in surprise as the torchlight dipped to the ground. "Some kind of status-symbol or something. Fat lot of good it does anyone."

"Aw, hey," said Saewin, then stopped awkwardly. How did you console someone who, by all accounts, had far more of the comforts of life than you'd ever see? But Saewin knew that, though he stood in low regard, he stood on his own soil, in hisland. Bran was Welsh, but couldn't even remember his birthplace. He'd grown up in Saewin's little Wessex village, traded as a child as weirgild for some forgotten war. But no-one forgot that Bran was a foreigner, though he spoke English, not Welsh, and lived in the house of the chief's uncle.

Arwel galumphed by, ending the moment and lashing them both with his tail. Bran rescued the torch before it rolled off the dry rock, scrubbing his hand across his nose.

"Well, this adventure didn't really turn out like I thought," said Saewin quickly. He strode along the ledge after Arwel, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "Hey, this goes on for ages … "

Bran followed with the torch, and they walked side by side past the heaps of cargo. The cave turned an abrupt corner to the right, blocked by a low wall of rock and the pillars of stalagmites. They clambered around and over, skidding on loose pebbles, handing the torch one to the other. Saewin glanced back at the dragons. Emer was already testing the water with one claw – for fearsome beasts, they weren't very brave – and as he watched she flung herself in. Ripples splashed across the underground harbor as Emer began to paddle around the outcrop. Arwel hissed.

Around the corner, the ledge continued, drier than before, but with less cargo stored on it – and they could see why: light flooded in from the mouth of the cave, a good several dragon-lengths away. Their shelf of rock stretched almost all the way to it. Outside they could see a calm sea, and a cloud-streaked horizon, framed by black teeth of rock. As they watched, a flight of gulls wheeled across it, squawking.

"Oh good, we can fly out this way," said Bran, as Emer wallowed out of the water beside them, and shook herself like a dog. "Come on, Arwel!" he called over his shoulder. The red dragon trotted off ahead, her claws scraping on the stone.

"We're not going just yet!" cried Saewin. He dashed over to the nearest crate, stamped with a stylized white flower, and jumped on top of it. He looked back at Bran possessively. "Let's at least take a look-see at what's in these ones. The light's better here, and we might find something fun to take home. As proof."

"Well, this is a proper treasure hoard," Bran pointed out, as Saewin began to lever at the lid of the crate he was sitting on. "Do we really, well, want to prove we found it? Isn't the point that we're rich now – that we can decide what to do with it all?"

"Yeah, but what do you wantto do?"

"Oh, here, let me," said Bran with a growl of exasperation. He shoved Saewin off the box, took his knife, and leant all his strength behind it. The wood creaked as it began to bend upwards.

"Seriously, though, what do we do with it all?" Saewin strode forward, turning round and round to look at their buried treasure. He honestly hadn't thought of it like that since Bran had shown up to rescue him – too excited, he supposed, by sharing the adventure with his friend.

"Almost – got it – " said Bran, through gritted teeth.

"I mean, do we really want to keep it all for ourselves? Seems a bit pointless, really," mused Saewin. He stopped to examine a stack of barrels, each taller than himself, that stood against the wall. "Wouldn't it be better to go home as – as conquering heroes – to bring the village good fortune and stuff?" He rapped against one of the barrels. It made a sloshing sound. "What's even inhere?"

"Well, this one's useless," said Bran in disappointment. "It's just flour." He stared down at the little fabric packages, each marked with the same flower, one slit open in his hand. White powder trickled back into the crate.

"See?" said Saewin. "That's something they can use and we can't. Let's do it, let's – "

But whatever he was about to say was lost as the light suddenly dimmed. Bran clapped a hand over Saewin's mouth and dragged him down behind the crate. They both peered over the top, towards the opening of the cave, eyes wide.

A shadow was passing across the cave from the left. An angular shadow, long and low at first, but as it reached the centre of the cave mouth, it grew much taller in the middle, and square … and as it drew around to enter, they could hear sounds across the water: the grunts and thuds and creaks of a ship under sail. An enormous, lean ship, with a smooth curve to its belly and a square white sail. It hung limply, and oars splashed in the water. It was as long as eight dragons, tail to snout, with a mast as tall as four.

"Ohh heavens," moaned Bran. Saewin shoved his hand off his mouth.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "I'm listening."

They both half-lay, pressed in breathless silence against the back of the crate, as the ship drew up and docked at the ledge barely a dragon-length away from them. Wood thumped against stone, water sloshed, there were a couple of yells and some laughter; and then a gangplank scraped and they heard the heavy tramp of sea-boots. Saewin – to Bran's dismay – inched up until he could peek at them.

"There's maybe forty of them – maybe more," he breathed. Bran's hand on his elbow yanked viciously, but Saewin ignored him. "They look pretty rough. I'm guessing pirates – or maybe they're Vikings! Real Vikings, Bran."

He let the other young man drag him down, and propped himself up on his elbow. Bran's brown eyes, a hand-span from his own, glared. They shone with fear and fury.

"Couldn't see much of the ship from here – it's behind those big barrels," Saewin whispered. "But I think it had a dragon's-head prow. Viking ships have those, right?"

"I don't much care if they're Vikings or Roman soldiers," hissed Bran. "If they catch us we're dead either way."

"They won't catch us," said Saewin confidently. His heart was pounding, but he didn't feel afraid – not like he had felt trapped back up in the cave, convinced that demons were coming for him. Forty Vikings – or Romans – that was just exciting. "Where are the dragons?"

Bran's eyes went wide, and he rolled over slowly, scanning the water. "Dunno," he whispered at length. "They must have gone back behind the wall." He nodded towards the ridge they had climbed over.

The men from the ship had by this time made it fast, and were busy unloading it: long crates and wicker baskets being handed down to piles on the ledge. Saewin wriggled up for another look. He thought he could make out their leader, a stocky man with a greasy fur-rimmed hat and a long brown mustache. He looked young, but he stood empty-handed by the gangplank gesticulating at the others. As he turned, Saewin caught a flash of light on an ornate brooch at his shoulder.

"What language are they speaking?" he muttered to Bran. He'd thought their words had just been distorted by the water, but no matter how hard he concentrated, the meaning escaped him.

"No idea," said Bran sullenly. "Not English."

"Oh, fat lot of help you are."

They stayed silent as the ship emptied. The sun dragged across the cave entrance, until it was setting in its right corner. The sky was streaked with pink. Saewin, from his vantage point, could see clouds sweeping over it from the north. His shoulders ached, and his head still hurt from the morning's misadventures. He heard Bran's stomach growl beside him, and looked down, a furious finger on his lips. Bran spread his hands in annoyance, as much as their cramped hiding space would allow.

"Are they going to leave?" he hissed to Saewin eventually. "We've been here for hours. We're lucky they haven't noticed us yet!"

"I'll admit this was a flaw in the plan," murmured Saewin, distracted. He'd been watching a lengthy conference between the fur-hatted man and a taller, muscular one with a thick blond braid and an unnerving amount of swords. They seemed to have reached an agreement, and now the sailors were beginning to move around again. "They're – it looks like they're packing up the ship."

"What?" Bran squirmed up beside Saewin, wincing at his stiff joints. "But they just unpacked it all!"

"Not that stuff. I think it's supplies," said Saewin. The big barrels he'd been inspecting before were the first to go.

"Oh heavens – what if they want the flour?" breathed Bran suddenly. He slid back down behind the crate, his face gone pale. "As soon as they walk over this way they'll notice – the lid's off; I shouldn't have cut open that bag, oh no, oh no no … "

"Shh!" hissed Saewin impatiently. "It doesn't matter. We'll get back around that ridge, find the dragons, and go up the stairs. I think that all that stuff round there is storage stuff, loot and things, that they didn't bother taking up to the cave: they won't come round for it. Once we get over the ridge we'll be safe."

"Until they notice the flour," whispered Bran, his eyes closed. He leaned his head back against the crate with a gentle thump. The white-flower mark on its side gave him a perfect halo. "We should have thought to put the lid back on; it's a miracle they haven't seen it yet and come and –"

"Stop that!" said Saewin fiercely. "Come on now, we'll swim round. They'll be less likely to spot us that way."

"Alright," said Bran at length. He opened his eyes and met Saewin's gaze, grinning wanly. "Saewin, I'm sorry."

"Oh, shut up," said Saewin. He shuffled up on his elbows to watch the sailors again. "Go when I say – I'll follow." He took a long look, trying to account for all of them. The muscular man and fur-hat were arguing again, and most of the others were taking the opportunity to return to their chatting or gambling or lounging. "Alright – go, now!"

He didn't take his eyes off the men, and felt instead when Bran pushed away from his side and skittered over the exposed rock. Near the ridge, Bran slipped into the black sea with barely a ripple.

The water was icy cold – an unexpected cold that whipped the breath from Bran's lungs. Something about the deep underground; shadow-soaked, never touching the sun. He paddled forward until just his eyes and forehead were above the surface, and struck out slowly around the point. As the water touched his nose it stung like fire. He could feel the blood washing away, and the ache began to ease. Hidden currents tugged at his clothes. Bran refused to look down, or back. There could be hideous things in the depths below him – but they were definitely there behind.

He was just reaching out to touch the spike of rock jutting from the corner of the ledge when he saw a light in the water ahead. Two luminous green spots, just below the surface. He would have screamed had his mouth not filled with water. Instead he gave a muted gurgle. Then the spots broke the surface. Bran let the water dribble out of his mouth and inhaled in relief. It was Emer, Arwel rising up beside her. Dragons, of course, could hold their breath for ages – ten times as long as a man. They'd been hiding down in the depths, perhaps – or exploring; they didn't recognize danger well when it came in human form. But they seemed to sense the tension now. Emer brushed past Bran without a glance, her red scales slick and dark. Her wings swept his side, her wake buffeting him into the side of the ledge. Bran paddled over to Arwel, catching his shoulder and pulling himself close. Arwel's yellow eyes watched him seriously, his snout dipped beneath the surface. Bran put out his other hand against the rock, and glanced back to see if Saewin was following. And his breath froze in his throat.

Saewin was crouched behind the crate still, in a runner's position, obviously preparing to dash for the water. Walking towards him were a couple of the sailors – scrawny, scarred men, but each bigger than Saewin and carrying swords. Bran knew that Saewin had seen them coming; his face was white and his shoulders trembling. A movement in the water off to the side caught Bran's eye: Emer, winding intently towards Saewin. Bran saw her head sink lower in the water, until only her horns and the ridges above her eyes were visible. She struck on, leaving a dark arrow in her wake. Bran swam two strokes after her, then stopped while he was still in the shadow of the ridge. What was she doing? Attacking the ship? Trying to swim out to sea? Going – heaven forbid – going to play with Saewin? They'd played hide-and-seek often back home.

"Oh, Emer, no," he breathed, treading water.

Saewin saw her too, and Bran could see his breath hitch. He shook his head furiously and drew a finger across his throat. Emer's head lifted out of the water, cocked in disappointment. She's actually listening to him for once? Saewin looked cheered, and – boldened by the success – pointed slowly towards the ship and the men, then laid a finger across his lips. Bran, his teeth starting to chatter, frowned dubiously. Emer held Saewin's gaze for a long moment, then – slowly – she began to sink below the water. Bran followed the green spots of her eyes for a moment, then they flickered out. He stared after them, feeling blindly behind him for Arwel's reassuring shoulder. His fingers brushed scales, smooth with water, and he pressed his palm against them, unsure whether to breathe in or out. Had she gone? Had she understood?

Saewin's eyes flickered between the ship and the spot Bran had entered the water. Bran willed him over, willed him to come on, get in; but knew Saewin couldn't see him in the dark. Then – "Hei!"

A startled yell as one of the men put his hand on the opened crate: cries and the scrape of swords as Saewin started up, staggered back, his head whipping around like a hunted animal. Bran bit down on the back of his hand to keep from shouting in horror.

They grabbed Saewin by the arms before he could take more than a few steps, and dragged him over to the others. The men by the ship were all looking now; most were standing, some kind of weapon in their hands. Saewin's feet scraped the ground, but it didn't do any good. He could barely breathe; his chest seemed to have frozen with the shock and the fright. He glanced up – the man with the fur hat was staring straight at him. He held Saewin's eyes for a moment. His eyes were a hazel brown, the left one lighter than the other. He didn't look angry or upset: more a cool kind of curious that chilled Saewin to the bone.

They forced him to his knees in the center of the group. A hand on each shoulder pressed him into the ground; a tight grip on his hair dragged his head back. He tried to look fierce, but all he could muster was a paralyzed kind of scared.

The muscled man stepped in front of him and asked a question in their weird, guttural language. Saewin just stared. The man said something else, his tone mocking, and the rest of the men laughed. An ugly laugh. His eyes darting around the circle, Saewin saw the man with the fur hat still watching him, turning a curved silver knife between his fingers. He nearly fainted right then.

The big man struck him across the face. It was like being hit by a plank of wood. Gasping, his cheek stinging, Saewin wrenched his gaze back up. The man looked at him a moment, shook his head, then called a question out to the rest. After a bit of muttering and shaking of heads, one of them stood up and said something back. Then he strode over and crouched in front of Saewin. He had matted black hair to his shoulders, and a scar on his jaw that cut through a mess of stubble. His breath stank of onions.

"You speak English?" he said. He had a strong accent, something northern, Saewin thought. He managed a tiny nod, yanking against the grip on his hair.

The black-haired man glanced up at the tall one and said something in their language – some kind of 'You were right, we can communicate now', Saewin could tell. The men holding him let go at a word of command, and he fell forward, skinning his palm. He crossed his legs and sat up, shivering uncontrollably.

The black-haired man sat down too and leaned forward.

"You're in a bit of trouble, lad," he said conversationally. Jabbing a thumb upwards, he added, "Gunnarr 'ere wants to know what the play is, so you'd better spill." Saewin just stared at him blankly. The man sighed. "Let's start with the basics, eh? My name's Jarl. Now come on lad, ain't you going to introduce yourself back? It'd be rude not to."

"Saewin, son of Scirwin son of Sigemund," said Saewin. It came out all in a rush, and he jerked his chin up. Even his pride was muted by fear, like a rock distorted and faint under the tide.

"Well, Saewin son of – whatever – good t'meet'cha." Jarl scrubbed a hand under his nose and offered Saewin a grin. Blondie said something sharp, and the black-haired man glanced up, repeating Saewin's answer.

"He wants to know what you're doing here, and – ja, kaptein, spør jeg– if there's anyone else with yer."

Saewin's eyes darted across the water compulsively, but he was facing away from the ridge where Bran had disappeared. Though a couple of men in the circle followed his gaze, they saw nothing.

"Yeah," said Saewin, struck by sudden bravado. "There's ten men from my village waiting at the top of the hill. And – and there's a ship coming to fetch us from the mainland soon. You'd better watch out."

His interpreter gave him a cynical smile, but rattled off something guttural to Blondie, who laughed.

"Jah, elskling, sure thing," said Jarl. Inside his heart, Saewin grinned. They might not look for Bran now, or the dragons. Blondie – Gunnarr – said something, waving a hand impatiently, and Jarl sighed.

"How did you get here, liten løgner?"

"I told you – there's a ship from our village," said Saewin madly. Jarl raised an eyebrow.

"I'll give you a chance to do better'n that, before I pass that on to Gunnarr," he said gently. Saewin opened his mouth, about to repeat his story – 'how dare you question my honour'– but a flash on his right caught in the corner of his eye. He looked over. Fur-hat was still staring at him, those sparkling eyes fixed on his own. The light had been a reflection from the curved knife. Saewin swallowed the lie in his throat, tasting bile.

"I – I, uh – " he said. But what could he say? Naming Emer was out of the question. Where had she gone? If she attacked the ship now, it would be suicidal, surely – but Saewin couldn't see any other way out of the situation for himself. He felt like crying again – he didn't even know what to hope for. Death? He didn't want to die. "I swam," he finished lamely.

Jarl rubbed the bridge of his nose, but passed this up to Gunnarr without another word. Gunnar's lip curled.

"He says, how did you know about this place, and have you been here before?"

"No, and, and it was an accident," said Saewin. Easy questions. He knotted his fingers together in his lap.

Jarl looked up at Gunnar to translate. Saewin could see that the scar on his jaw ran down his throat as well, under his rough shirt. There were grey streaks in his hair – how old was he? Saewin was suddenly conscious of feeling completely alien: these men, these strangers, had come from a place he couldn't imagine, over a wider ocean than he'd ever seen, under a billion stars. They'd bidden their families goodbye in a language he couldn't understand. They'd live and die in ways he'd never know. They'd kill him, and forget it by tomorrow. He shivered.

Gunnar snapped something to Jarl, who responded with a 'How should I know?' sort of shrug. Gunnar said something else, casting a glance over his shoulder towards the setting sun, then he shrugged.

"Anything else? Last words?" said Jarl carelessly, picking at his teeth.

"Last – what? No!" stammered Saewin. Gunnarr drew his sword with a scrape. It drew Saewin's eye, hideously; he'd never … swords, knives; they never seemed realuntil one was aimed at your throat –

Then there was an – explosion, it seemed, at the water's edge; something scarlet and dripping, Emer, crashed from the pool, scattering spray and men in all directions. She was snarling, savage eyes blazing – even Saewin fell on his back in fear and shock. Everyone around him was shouting. They were running and falling over each other and the red sun glinted off waving weapons in the shadows. He couldn't make sense of anything – there was Emer's tail; there her wings, lashing two men with spears into the cavern wall; there her claws. Saewin flipped onto his elbows and crawled furiously for the water. Someone's foot caught under his ribs, winding him. They fell on top of him, then scrambled away. He was nearly at the water – its frothing black edge was just beyond his fingertips – when a boot slammed into his back. His chest and chin struck the rock, hard. He stayed there for a moment – sprawled by the water, feeling a bruise forming on his jaw – then the boot's owner hauled him up by the scruff of his neck. Saewin noticed that the screaming had stopped, and Emer's howling. It had been replaced by a smothered growling that filled him with dread. The strength seemed to have gone from his arms and legs again.

He was tossed to the ground again next to a slew of knocked-over crates, spilling metalware from their rent sides. He hit his shoulder against the stone. Everyone was yelling at each other. The men around him – Saewin's head twisted back and forth, trying to make sense – they were all pointing fingers, waving axes – who was going to decide what would happen to him? Where, where, where was Emer?

The man in the fur hat was sitting on a box near the ship. He let the shouting continue for a few minutes, then stood up. As he moved towards them, the men fell silent, and slowly moved out of his way. As the noise petered out to a few last mutters, he drew to a halt by Saewin's feet. Saewin could see the hilt of the silver knife, tucked in his boot. He looked up, breathless.

The man pointed down at him, and said, "Vsadnik drakona?"

Saewin didn't think it was the same language the others were speaking. They all looked as confused as him. 'Drakona'; that must be dragon. What was fur-hat asking? The muffled snarling was still going. It set his nerves on edge. Saewin's eyes found Jarl, lurking near the edge of the circle. He wished desperately for the man to turn around; the only source of sense in this whole wretched situation. But Jarl, his hands tucked under his arms, was watching fur-hat like the rest.

Fur-hat stared down at Saewin. His eyes narrowed, making some judgement, and he waved his hand beside him, beckoning. Blondie – Gunnarr – appeared at his elbow, shoving aside a couple of grimy sailors. They shared a quick conversation. Then Gunnarr shrugged, hesitated – Saewin thought he almost made a move as if to tug his forelock, then caught himself – and rapped out a string of orders. The ledge burst into activity again. The men scattered, some carrying supplies to the ship, some picking up the spilled cargo. As the crowd cleared, Saewin finally saw Emer. His heart twisted. They'd managed to pin her down – how, Saewin couldn't fathom – and tangled her in a weighted net. The fine mesh was pressing against her scales. Her tail was caught up in her right wing – she hated that; she hated being stuck. Someone had put a belt around her jaws. Her lips were drawn back behind it, saliva dripping from her fangs. Where was Bran? Where was Arwel? Were they hurt? Had they run away – had they abandoned him?

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, pushing him upright. It was Jarl.

"Come on, kid," he muttered, and, with a hand around Saewin's arm, steered him toward the ship. Saewin staggered going up the gangplank. On board, there was a strong smell of sweat and fish, over sweet resin and the salty seaweed tang of the wide ocean. As big as it was, the ship was crowded. Cargo was everywhere, under the narrow benches laid over the ship's exposed ribs. Men were clambering in between them, hauling at the ropes tethered at either side. The ship wasn't very deep; barely taller than Saewin's knees, with round shields lashed to the outside bringing it to his chest. He felt a wave might come over and sweep him off. And the sail, the vast square sail, dominated it all; a dirty ivory spread of canvas, its corners tied to the sides. They were behind it, but Saewin thought he could see a design on it in backwards blue ink.

The deck was only roughly planked, and groaned and wobbled under his feet. They had to step over the benches, and Saewin knocked his shins against every one. Jarl led him over to the mast, and sat him down beside it, between the benches. Saewin caught a glimpse of the cave wall, before it disappeared behind the rough-edged shields. The base of the mast was wrapped in rope, and its ridges poked his back. The low water in the bottom of the ship soaked through the back of his trousers and cloak. Bran's cloak. He felt Jarl's hands at his wrists and heard the clink of metal. He looked down. A pair of thick shackles ran to a chain around the mast. They were slightly too big, and sat heavily against his hands.

"Just, uh, in case, y'know, um," muttered Jarl, not looking at him. He rubbed his chin and moved away.

The sailors finished loading the ship. A basket of leeks ended up next to Saewin's feet, along with a cage containing a number of squawking chickens. They had a hard time getting Emer aboard. In the end they simply rolled her over until the net was wrapped underneath her, then hauled her over the side and pinned her down with ropes. They put her in the front of the ship, where a little deck of sorts was laid on top of the benches. Saewin craned his head to see underneath the sail. Her eyes were closed.

Eventually, with much shouting, they cast off. Big sweaty men sat on the benches and hauled away at oars, and they pulled out of the cave. Saewin watched the shadows of the rock turn to the shadows of the twilight sea, staring straight ahead. He didn't have any energy left to worry, or to be afraid. A blast of cold air, heavy with sea-spray, dashed against his face. Storm clouds blew across the moon overhead.

Bran opened his eyes, blinked, and coughed. Then he coughed again, and flung himself up onto his shoulder to heave what felt like the entire ocean out of his lungs. When he could breathe again, he lay back shaking. His mouth tasted like vomit, and his throat stung.

"Arwel?" he croaked, craning his head. The white dragon appeared right beside him, one glimmering eye pressed close to his. It looked worried. "Hey, hey Arwel," murmured Bran, wrapping his hands around the dragon's reassuring head.

He remembered what had happened, more or less. The pirates had caught Saewin, and Bran, desperate and panicking, had found Emer bobbing out of the water at his left hand. At first he'd taken her head, pressed it away from the events on the shore, whispered to her until she stayed calm and silent, treading water. But when the blond man had drawn his sword, Bran had pointed to Saewin's cowering shadow, and said simply, "Look."

He'd tried to follow, he really had – he hadn't meant to send Emer off to attack thirty men on her own. He didn't intend that any of them should leave the island without the others. But … what had happened? He remembered … he'd dived after her, the water thrashing white, and then been jerked back. He guessed he'd hit his head on the rocks, slipped beneath the water …

"Arwel," he said flatly. Arwel laid his head down beside Bran's and regarded him mournfully from the side. Bran rolled away and jerked to his feet. Water trickled off him to the ground. "Don't ever do that again." Arwel crooned, upset.

Bran strode over the ledge towards the cave mouth, kicking away the shards of a crate. The ship was gone, its dock a scene of half-tidied devastation. Outside, dark grey rain hissed into an unforgiving sea.

A cold gust flashed by Bran's face, whipping through his hair and reviving him. What a day, he thought, and laughed mirthlessly at the understatement. He'd woken up that morning ready for an adventure with Saewin, ready to come home cold and tired to his foster-mother's stew, and to be growled at by Father Aaren for skipping lessons again. He supposed he could still go back to those things. After all, no-one would miss Saewin – who did an orphaned farm-boy have to care about him?

Bran turned his head to the South, and, as he'd hoped, saw a tiny sail tossed against the dimming light of the horizon. Thunder growled, and a wave struck up by the wind crashed over Bran's shins. He stepped back, already so cold he could barely remember being warm. Suddenly, perhaps two miles east of the ship, a light blossomed. It was the same sickly, pale, creeping light he'd seen before, up on the hilltop in the morning. It was bigger than he'd imagined back then, rearing up towards the clouds, arching above the ship. Then it went out.

"You don't scare me," snarled Bran. He felt Arwel's breath on his back, and turned around to caress his dragon's nose. "I'm sorry, Arwel. I'm sorry. I know you were trying not to let me get hurt. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He pressed his forehead against Arwel's, his eyes screwed shut. "I'm sorry," Bran whispered. "But dammit, I'm going after Saewin if I have to swim." He pushed Arwel's face away, and swung up onto his sodden leather saddle. The safety line shed water as he twisted it onto his belt. Bran tapped Arwel's shoulder, and the dragon bounded forward, his wings snapping out as he leapt from the ledge. They glided out of the cave's mouth, and immediately were grabbed by the relentless wind. Arwel's wings worked for altitude, sacrificing control for a moment. Bran clung to his straps, feeling the dragon's warm shoulders twisting rhythmically beneath him. At length Arwel steadied them against the growing storm, and Bran looked up. They'd been swept some way to the north, and the island was far below them. The air was thick with water, and raindrops as hard as hail battered against Bran's shoulders and head. He gasped for air and burrowed close to Arwel again.

"South!" he shouted. The wind tore away his words. "Follow the ship!"

Arwel did his best, striking out for the horizon lost now below the clouds. The gale flung him from side to side, buffeting the pair of them, sweeping them over and upside down. Thunder boomed again and again. They lost sight of the sea and the sky. Water and grey wind tore all around them.

A strong gust caught Arwel from the front, his wings billowing out with a crack to catch it. They seemed to stop dead in mid-air. Bran feared his dragon's wings would break. He began at last to wonder if he'd been a fool to take to the air in the storm; but home was far behind them now, and he had no idea of the direction in which it lay. They were lost now, and at the mercy of the night.

After a while – an hour, a week – he wrapped his fingers tight in the straps, and let the cold freeze them there, numb. Arwel's laboring, weary wingbeats; the jerking and buffeting; the maelstrom around them; all faded into the dark.

The storm had not quite abated by the dawn, but the hissing rain had eased enough for two figures to walk on a stony beach. The slate-gray waves smashed into the shore, the gale howling off the moor beyond. It was still dark, a perpetual twilight beneath a black sky. A man and his granddaughter made their way slowly down the shoreline, out of reach of the ravenous sea. He leaned on a weathered stick and her elbow, and she held a pile of driftwood in her other hand. Both their hoods, pulled up tight, ran with runnels of rainwater, dripping from the hems.

Suddenly the girl dropped her burden, and pointed forwards, towards the frothing silver surf. The old man shrugged, tugging on his beard in his usual skeptical way, but she was young enough to dash forwards into the waves. He hobbled after, muttering fondly under his breath.

The shape she'd seen, once they drew close enough, made even the old man raise his eyebrows. It took them both a hard effort, but they dragged it from the swirling waves. The pebbles of the beach scrunched and slid underneath, sucking them all towards the sea.

"Is he going to be alright, Grandda?" asked the little girl breathlessly, when they'd made it out of the water. The old man pursed his lips and sucked at his teeth.

"We'll see, love," he said, and crouched to brush the hair back from the boy's sodden face. They were just unconscious, the young man and the exhausted dragon beneath him, but as cold as stone. Privately, he thought that anyone crazy enough to ride out on a dragon in this weather hadn't been 'alright' in the first place. But he kept that thought to himself.

"Run back home and get your brother, Heulwen," he told her, and settled down beside the strangers with a groan. She tore off, her coat fluttering over the grass far across the moor. A couple of windswept seagulls wheeled overhead.

Far above, the rainclouds roiled, crying the same tears on the Viking ship as on Bran and his dragon, sprawled and freezing on the beach.


End file.
